


The Apprentice's Beekeeper

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Category: Mary Russell - Laurie R. King, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't Examine This Too Closely, Edited By, F/M, Gen, Meta, Too Weird For Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: This is a genuine plutonium-plated bombshell. Unless, that is, it’s a forgery. And it's not the story you were originally going to get, either.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Mary Russell
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	The Apprentice's Beekeeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amindamazed (hophophop)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/gifts).



**Editor’s Note:  
** _It’s one thing entirely to pretend to be Sherlock Holmes or John Watson – or Mycroft, or Enola, or one of the Charlottes, or Mrs. Hudson, et cetera) for purposes of dramatic license. Some of the stories, of course, have obviously been wholly invented by those presenting them – the less said about some of the ‘giant rats of Sumatra’, the better – or at the least, imported from universes more or less next door to this one. (Vampires, forsooth! Not to mention enough different and mutually exclusive Professors Moriarty to staff a moderately sized college.)_

_All along, of course, more respectable Sherlockian scholars have given due credit to Dr. Watson or one of Holmes’ other occasional companions. Even in those cases, questions have sometimes been raised about the provenance of the manuscripts involved, but as a rule these editors have been given the benefit of the doubt, and for the most part, that trust has not been unduly abused._

_The present document, however?_

_Dynamite._

_No, I take that back; this is a genuine plutonium-plated bombshell. Unless, that is, it’s a forgery – but for now, that’s going to be impossible to prove one way or the other._

_Also – this is not the story my recipient was supposed to get. This turned up via email a couple of days before the deadline, accompanied by instructions to post and a set of summary data for the mods. (Don’t ask what would have happened if I’d ignored the instructions. Let’s just say that the consequences would have been far too creative – and appropriate – to match any sort of ordinary malware.) I am half convinced, in fact, that the mods may have been in on the matter all along. AO3, however, doesn’t allow an “edited by” credit, so you’re seeing it under my byline._

* * *

For those whose image of Sherlock Holmes is firmly fixed against the elegant backdrop of Queen Victoria’s (and subsequently King Edward’s) England, the thought of the world’s first consulting detective seated placidly before a computer screen may well spark disbelief or even ridicule. Yet many of these same individuals have been following my wife’s memoirs for nearly a quarter century, and are well aware that she has adapted to the tools of the electronic age.

It should thus surprise no one that I – the more scientifically minded member of our partnership – was in fact the first in our household to acquire and make practical use of a modern computer. My initial purpose, of course, was to compile, refine, and analyze data concerning my beekeeping activities and the results thereof. It was not long, however, before I recognized the many other potential uses for electronic intelligence, and began to take advantage of these capabilities – including certain aspects of what we now call “social media”.

My present purpose, however, is not to lecture on technological matters – save perhaps to issue a general caution that the words “privacy” and “Internet” are, as a practical matter, often mutually exclusive concepts.

Which was why I was initially concerned, some years ago, when I learned that my wife had established a presence on the service all too appropriately known as Twitter…under her own name. (It should be patently obvious to anyone reading this note that none of my own social media accounts are in the name of Sherlock Holmes.)

“It’s purely a sales tool,” she asserted at the time. “And yes, a favor to Mrs. King; readers _will_ keep asking her about the matter of the steamer trunk, and this will allow us an opportunity to tie off that thread.”

“You know my views, Russell,” I said. “I grant that you are a far less notorious public figure than I have become, but there is real risk here. Your Twitter presence visibly perpetuates the idea that you – and I, by extension – are something more than a merely fictional character. Mrs. King’s friends among the modern Irregulars will certainly ask questions – and begin inviting you to accompany her to their public gatherings.”

Russell laughed lightly. “Deeply unlikely,” she said. “And if they do, Mrs. King will politely decline all such invitations on my behalf.”

“That will do little good, I fear. A mere personal blog, such as you set up to complement Mrs. King’s Web presence, generates remarkably little Internet traffic in absolute terms. Twitter, by contrast, is far more interactive – and in real time, at that. Your participation, even sporadically, in Twitter’s data-stream will greatly increase the size of the shadow you cast across cyberspace, and thereby make it appear far more likely that you exist independent of Mrs. King. And that, in turn, may pose a genuine threat to the cloak of supposed unreality which protects our privacy.”

“Ha,” said Russell. “So I shall become an ant as opposed to a mosquito. The risk is minimal, and worthwhile in maintaining a cordial relationship with Mrs. King.”

I prudently surrendered, and years passed with so little incident that I was forced to acknowledge the accuracy of Russell’s prediction. Indeed, her Twitter presence attracted such modest notice that she and Mrs. King had been forced to conjure a pretended crisis from whole cloth, involving a horde of “ravening Sherlockians”, in association with the publication of a subsequent volume of her memoirs.

Yet though the horde had been a figment of their imaginations, one particular Sherlockian remained something of a nettle. This was Mr. Leslie Klinger, both a long-standing friend of Mrs. King’s and a Baker Street Irregular (which is to say, a member of the modern organization, not one of my own one-time troop of field agents), who has become one of his peers’ most highly regarded scholars of all things to do with Sherlock Holmes.

Mr. Klinger had emerged much the worse for wear from an attempt to “interview” Russell via Twitter, but the incident had left him convinced that Mrs. King herself could not have perpetrated such an exchange. He was certain, Russell reported, that he would fare better given the chance to meet her face to face.

To this I proposed (through Russell, of course) a series of distractions. Mrs. King, I suggested, should partner with Mr. Klinger on a series of collected works focused less on my original life and adventures than on those whom they had inspired or benefited – Watson, for instance, or Lestrade, or anyone who might be counted a spiritual heir to the deerstalker and Inverness that had become my iconic costume. As I put it to Russell, “By focusing the gentleman’s attention on the great variety of Holmeses who are genuinely imaginary, we may reduce his interest in those of us who would dispute that status.”

Mrs. King – and more importantly, her publishers – found this idea appealing, and pursued it with no small degree of success. Several more years passed with little to disturb Russell’s and my peaceful retirement.

I use the word “retirement” advisedly, of course. Neither Russell nor I are truly idle, though the narrow focus and studied indifference of Russell’s online persona might suggest that she and I do little nowadays but sit by the fire – or at our respective desks – engaged in one or another bout of writing or more active research.

In truth, such a perception is not wholly inaccurate. Although we remain in excellent physical health and retain the general appearance of middle age (by means I dare not disclose in this note, though I assure its readers that no supernatural agency is involved), both my own minor fame and Russell’s modest notoriety are such that we chiefly keep our own company. At the same time, though, we retain our mutual distaste for idleness.

But I digress. While pursuing a genealogical inquiry some weeks past, I encountered certain peculiar signs in the course of my research that prompted a change in its direction. Nor was my concern without basis – I was able to trace the source of the thread back to Mr. Klinger, and further, to determine that he was digging deeply into the history – not of Russell, but of Mrs. King and her family.

Naturally, I shared this intelligence with my wife, inquiring whether she was aware of any reason for Mr. Klinger’s interest. “None I can think of,” was her response. “Unless….”

I allowed her the necessary moment for recollection to surface. “As you may recall,” Russell said slowly, “there have been requests from Mrs. King’s publishers for photographs connected to the more recent memoirs, from which the artists may work.”

“Which you have, of course, declined to provide.”

“Indeed. The publishers have been forced to rely on photos from Mrs. King’s own travels, supplemented with a handful of other old images. I believe she may have included one or two pictures of her late husband in one batch, with the whimsical suggestion that they might represent Sherlock Holmes in disguise.”

A slight chuckle passed my lips. Though I never met Noel Quinton King, his writings had been of interest to me even before Russell recruited his wife as her literary agent. “A clever diversion, that, but I am not sure of its connection—”

I stopped abruptly, a theory coalescing in my mind.

Russell’s fingers snapped. “We have been thankful,” she said, “that Mr. Klinger ceased his pestering for contact with me.”

“Indeed. We failed to consider that his curiosity might turn itself toward Mrs. King.”

“Precisely. He has retained the conviction that I genuinely exist, and is now researching the proposition that Mrs. King and I may be one and the same.” Russell shook her head, her expression a blend of bemusement and shock.

I was likewise alarmed. “And in the mind of a devoted Sherlockian, such as Mr. Klinger, that would strongly suggest that Noel King and I must also have been alter-egos.”

“That,” Russell observed, “is a singularly tortuous chain of reasoning.”

I nodded in agreement. “True. However, circumstance lies somewhat in Mr. Klinger’s favor in one respect: the extensive travel that dominates both Mr. and Mrs. King’s early lives offers considerable room for convenient gaps in even the modern genealogical record. For an individual prone to imaginative speculation, it is all too easy to conclude that you and I might have slipped ourselves into certain of those gaps.”

My wife regarded me with a frown. “I believe the modern phrase is ‘not helping’. For Mrs. King’s sake as well as our own, we must pre-empt any further research in the direction we have identified. I confess, however, to a lack of inspiration regarding the method.”

I merely smiled. “The solution is obvious, if unconventional – Sherlock Holmes himself must refute any such connection.”

Russell’s mouth assumed a perfect O-shape. “You can’t be serious. You’ll be hounded halfway around the world and back.”

“Not at all,” I said, still smiling. “The refutation need not be made in physical reality. We merely need to present the Internet with a credible statement that I am alive and well, just as you are – and to do so in a way that clearly associates the notice with you but not with Mrs. King.”

My wife was silent for a few moments, thinking. Then she nodded slowly. “Any statement I may make will be taken as promoting my own self-interest over any possible truth. And the same would apply to a notice given by Mrs. King.”

“Whereas I must acknowledge both my status and yours,” I returned, “to fend off the idea that I am merely one of the hundreds of other writers currently pretending to retell lost or otherwise unrecorded cases. I cannot, for instance, be Nicholas Meyer’s Holmes.”

Now it was Russell’s turn to chuckle. “It’s as well Dr. Freud never saw that one. But how can we circulate a denial effectively without sacrificing our privacy?”

“Easily enough,” I said. “You and I are both familiar with those corners of the Internet where Mrs. King’s readers gather to socialize – and, on occasion, to pen and circulate supposed additions to your memoirs.”

“The ‘Letters of Mary’ list,” said Russell at once. “I believe it has just relocated itself, but yes. Although I am not sure how one would insert a post from Sherlock Holmes himself into that group. One must, I think, be invited to join, and eyebrows would be raised at the very least if you turned up on their doorstep.”

I shook my head slightly. “Agreed. I was thinking rather of the Holmestice community. It is the right time of year, they are noted for including unusual material in their archive – and I believe there is some slight overlap between their readership and that of _Letters of Mary_.”

Russell’s expression grew thoughtful. “Unusual, yes – and eclectic. As I recall, a great many of that lot would have you in bed with Uncle John – except the ones who like the movie with the Russian women, or the cartoon where Watson is a robot, or that arrant nonsense with Benedict Cumberbatch.”

“Come now, Russell. Mr. Cumberbatch is a superb actor. It is not his fault that the producers have completely misread the historical record.” I waved my hand dismissively. “And in any event, the Holmestice collective has also welcomed some few of your own devotees into its ranks. Now we shall give it one more such account – and from there it will make its way gradually across the Internet. Eventually Mr. Klinger will come across it – and since he, unlike Mrs. King, is not enjoined from reading ‘unauthorized’ memoirs arising from yours, he will be unable to resist doing so.”

“Perhaps not,” said Russell. “But will it change his mind about Mrs. King being – well, me?”

“In and of itself, perhaps not,” I admitted. “But it will raise doubts, which he will be forced to attempt to reconcile. In the end, after all, the masquerade he would ascribe to Mrs. King is even less plausible than the idea that you and I are alive and well two decades into the twenty-first century.”

“That,” Russell said wryly, “is a palpable hit.”

And so, thus agreed, I turned to my keyboard and typed out this brief narrative. Little further is needed, I think, to make my case, though I shall add a handful of brief comments to address a few of the inevitable questions.

First: as time passes, I grow increasingly fascinated with the persistence of my own notoriety – and the inherent contradictions it has generated. I can think of no other scholarly endeavor wherein historical accuracy is so highly prized – and yet Holmesian scholars may, with equal credibility, draw acclaim by introducing new and wholly invented episodes into the historical record. By rights, the sheer illogic of the exercise should drive a rational man to madness, and I am surely the textbook example of such a man. And yet, the more I read among even the most fanciful of the adventures woven for me by each new generation of storytellers, the more I find myself bemused and awed in equal measure.

Second: yes, as the foregoing suggests, some nine-tenths of the manuscripts I mention above have no basis in fact. Not one of the published accounts concerning James Phillimore and his umbrella tells the true tale, for example. Yet many of Watson’s literary impersonators have at least absorbed a solid grasp of my investigative methods, and I am hard-pressed to complain about mere errant facts in the face of well-written explication of deductive technique. I will mention just two additional points regarding cases outside Conan Doyle’s canon. There was but one giant rat of Sumatra; its tale has been published, but I may say only that to my knowledge, it did not involve vampires. As to Jack the Ripper: to this day even I cannot name him, and my inability to do so is my single greatest professional regret.

Third: Russell has found it convenient, in her online persona, to assert that we still reside in the Sussex cottage where my original retirement began. The truth is otherwise. At our increasingly improbable chronological ages, it has become necessary to adopt alternate personae in our everyday lives. Between the legal complexities of that process, and our ongoing need for both privacy and activity, we have relocated to somewhat larger acreage at a considerable distance from our old haunts.

You may, of course, choose to disbelieve the authenticity of this note. I submit, however, that it is at least as reasonable to assert that I am a human being just over 150 years of age as it is to claim that I am a fictional character. And as Russell points out, even if one believes both propositions equally, that leaves room for four more such to accept before breakfast.

[signed]

Sherlock Holmes

 **Postscript:  
** _Before anyone asks, I have no idea whether what Holmes says about Leslie Klinger is grounded in any sort of fact, much less whether the notion he ascribes to Mr. Klinger is remotely supportable. Then again, the truth of that theory may depend on the way it’s framed. Even if Mary Russell is not Laurie King, it’s not wrong to say that Mrs. King is, in a real way, Mary Russell._

 _Meanwhile, I’m not sure what’s scarier: the idea that Sherlock Holmes is alive – not just in the abstract, but as a specific individual – in 2019, or the prospect that he’s reading the Holmestice archives (and also, evidently, the_ Letters of Mary _list)_.

_After all, Holmestice itself is founded on the notion that all our unique Holmeses – Neil Gaiman’s, Cumberbatch and Brett, and indeed, the Holmes who married Russell – are equally genuine. If we accept the foregoing as real, must we then demote Gaiman’s Moran, Lucy Liu’s Joan Watson, and a thousand other incarnations to beings of mere fiction? This Holmes suggests we can’t rationally do otherwise…and then seems to admit that even he can’t resist the appeal of the mutually impossible._

_You have to think, though, that with an actual Holmes openly looking over our collective shoulders, matching next round is going to be even trickier than usual…_

_…unless, of course, he’s been_ writing _stories for us all along, too._


End file.
